The poetry of earth is never dead : 



When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 

 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 



From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 



That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 

 In summer luxury, — he has never done 

 With his delights ; for when tired out with fun 



He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 



The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 



On a lone winter evening, when the frost 



lias wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

 And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 

 The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



Keats. 



